


Three Years: The Fuck Ups of Peter Wentz

by AA90



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Addiction, Cutting, Disbandment, Guilt, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AA90/pseuds/AA90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot can happen  in  three years, and Patrick and Pete know this. There's been a marriage between  a lead singer and a guitarist, a three year affair with the  bassist, a death of a certain guitarist, and now in the aftermath  of it all, there's plenty of  guilt and hurt... Among other things, and now Patrick and Pete have to make their next  moves. But time is ticking, and a certain widower is about to snap. <br/>Will Patrick finally face his fears, his addiction, and the guilt that's tearing him apart? Will he blame Pete for everything, or accept  the truth? And will Pete be able to save him in time??<br/>No one knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Morning Without HIm

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've had for a long time now. I am ashamed to say that I do all of the editing myself. Sorry about that.  
> Anyway, I really have big plans for this. I understand that this plot is pretty fucked up, but trust me, I've read worse and I'm pretty sure that you have too. I also understand that this fic is really slow paced and boring right now, but I give you my word that I will faster and be A LOT more interesting once I really get more into where this story is going.  
> And, just because I'm sort of really excited to finally get this darned thing posted here, leave some comments, okay? I don't really care if they're negative or positive, I just want to know what you think, alright?
> 
> THANK YOU!!!

(Patrick's POV)

My eyes open.

I get out of bed and put on a shirt that's laying on the bedroom floor. Seeing that it is still dark outside, I suddenly stumble back to my nightstand to look at the time. I grab my phone from the charger and press the power button. "3:25", I find myself saying to myself.

I grip the phone tightly as I make my way to my closet. I reach for the switch on the wall; feeling for it in the dark. When I find it, I flip the darned thing and grab a random pair of pajama pants from a random hanger. Leaving the light on in the closet, I throw the pants over my shoulder, and then make my way back to my bed and sit down.Taking the pair of pants off my shoulder, I sit them next to me on the bed. I'm not really ready to put them on yet.

It's a bit chilly in this room tonight, but not too cold. I lean over to the nightstand, open the drawer, and take out a ring, along with a small remote for the stereo sitting on my dresser that I rarely use. Closing my eyes, I slide the cool metal onto my ring finger on my left hand. "Hmm", I mumble. "It still fits". I point the remote at the stereo and press the power button. The slow annoyance and anxiety that I have been feeling since I woke up is starting to disappear now that I hear the soothing sounds of the first track from  _'From Under the Cork Tree',_  which is entitled " _Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn't Get Sued"_. I lay back on my bed and close my eyes. Slowly, I start to rub the ring with my pinky finger. I miss him.


	2. Rejecting Pete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this chapter....

(Patrick's POV)

A few hours later, I finally turn off the stereo after playing almost every Fall Out Boy album known to man. I put on the pajama pants and make my way to the bathroom where I brush my teeth. I take off my shirt before I shave. No one likes facial hair on their shirt right?  

I open the medicine cabinet and grab a bottle of aspirin. I have five of them in there. Extra strength tablets. Each pill is 500mg each. I can go through one bottle in the course of two days. That's fifty pills a day since there's one hundred in a bottle. Also, that's about three and half bottles a week. Yeah, I guess you can say that I've built a pretty high tolerance to them. I open the pill bottle and shake a pill into my hand, then pop it into my mouth. I don't even bother to get water. I have about three years of experience of swallowing pills dry. I snap the lid back on the aspirin bottle, then put it in my pocket.

When I walk out of the bathroom, I ball up my shirt and throw it into my clothes hamper. I'm gonna be in this apartment by myself, might as well get comfortable. I walk over to my bed and grab my phone. No texts. No missed calls. It's gonna be a good day. 

Going into the living room, I grimace as I hear my cell start to ring. I actually have to talk to people today? I don't want to. I pull my phone from my pocket and see Pete's name on my screen. I raise an eyebrow. Should I answer? I press 'reject'. No, I decide. I shouldn't.


	3. What the Hell Did I Do??

(Pete's POV)

 

After spending a few hours completely bored out of my fucking mind, in this overly dim bar, I decide to call Patrick, because why not? I guess I'm worried about him. He rejected my call earlier today. That was weird. I quickly and quietly excuse myself. Saying that I had to use the restroom. Little did they know, I was completely ditching them. Anyway, I left the table from my current group of Brendon Urie, Andy Hurley, Mikey Way, and Adam Lambert. Interesting group, I know. 

Outside of the bar, I lean against the wall. It's cold in Chicago tonight. I frown. It's been pretty cold since Joe died. I look up at the sky. "Hmm", I mumble. I look back down at my feet. The band broke up after that. Andy called me the day after Joe's death, and simply said "I'm done" then hung up. And well, Patrick... He sorta barricaded himself in his apartment. Which, now that I think about it, was completely unexpected. And I... Well, I didn't do anything besides sleep. Everything really happened in a blur, and I just felt really fucking tired all of a sudden.

I step away from the wall and start to walk down the street. I pull out my phone to text Andy. Just to tell him that I left. Hell, I left the bar a good ten minutes ago. If they haven't figured it out, whatever. I send the text and slide the phone back into my pocket. I sigh quietly. 

I continue to walk. Ignoring the bitter cold as I do. I look across the street and see a purple fire hydrant. What? I chuckle and run across the street to it.   No, I didn't look before crossing. Reckless I know.

As I get closer to the hydrant I grab my phone from my pocket. I have to take pictures of this thing. I take several pictures with the mental promise to myself to post them on Instagram, Snapchat, or Twitter later. 

I continue walking now that I have ended my fascination with the purple fire hydrant. 

It's funny. How I was supposed to call Patrick, but I got on this wild tangent instead. I sigh quietly. Maybe I'll call him tomorrow. Maybe we'll go out for lunch or something. I smile. 'Yeah, lunch would be nice', I think as start to walk home.


	4. Rainfall showers and fog

(Pete's POV)

 

I wake up the next morning with a bit of a headache. Well, more of a headache then I'd like. I don't have to do anything today, so that's a plus... I think. 

I get out of bed and walk over to Hemingway. He lifts his head upon hearing my footsteps. "Breakfast for you, coffee for me. Come on, dude", I say. He follows me as I go down to the kitchen. 

After breakfast (or at least my version of it), I go back up to my bedroom and strip. It's shower time. I recently bought a rainfall shower head and spent about two hours installing it. It's has LED lights and changes all colors of the rainbow. It's one of my better investments, to say the least.

I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I let the bathroom fog up while I lean against the wall next to the window. I close my eyes and sigh. It's been a long year. I open my eyes and rub my hand against the window to remove the fog, then look out of the window and see no real difference between the fog in my bathroom and the fog outside. I leave the window and get in the shower to wash off last night's events.

When I finally get out of the shower, I walk over to to my bathroom closet, open it, grab one of the various black body towels, and wrap it around my waist. I walk to the sink and brush my teeth, and then open the medicine cabinet to grab, and take my meds.

I go back to my bedroom and get dressed, grab my phone, then go back downstairs and watch TV. Yep. It's gonna be an easy day.


	5. Sam Smith... Among other things

(Patrick's POV)

 

So, there's this new guy in the music industry. Well, he's not that new, but he is still considered a rookie. His name is Sam Smith. Singer? Yes. Yes he is. Otherwise, I don't think that I'd be mentioning him. It's not that I'm  discriminating against the actors and actresses, it's just that I don't really keep up with them, you know? Anyway, the entire reason why I'm mentioning him, is because Pete came over with Hemingway about two hours ago and we had been discussing our favorite songs at the moment. " 'Trick? Hello? Anyone home", Pete asks while waving his hand in my face. I snap out of my thoughts and smile at him. "Yeah", I say. "What were you saying?" Pete smiles back and continues, "I was asking what would you think would come out of a collaboration with him?"

"Nothing good", I say. "He's way too rhythm and bluesy. It wouldn't work unless we did a crossover into that category. But honestly, I don't see that happening anytime soon."

Pete nods.

"But", I continue. "If he decided to come into the punk rock side of the music world. We might have a chance of making a somewhat bearable track."

Pete chuckles quietly. "I guess that makes sense", he says.

We go to a long, but comfortable silence. I take my fedora off of my head and play with it. And Pete quietly plays with Hemingway.

I stop playing with my hat when I notice how the light is bouncing off my wedding band. I didn't realize that it was still on my hand. I put my hat back on my head, and take off the ring. Holding it in front of me, I see the inscription that's on the inside of it. Forever and Always. I shake my head slowly. Yeah, that was the case until Pete came into the picture. Peter fucking Wentz. It's all his fault. Well, no. That's not right. It takes two to have an affair. It's more of mine than his, though. I could've said no to our little affair at anytime. I frown deeply. I never should've let it start. I was married for Christ's sake! I know the fucking rules of marriage. Joe was supposed to be my one and only. Fuck, where did I leave my aspirin? I sit the ring in my lap and rub my forehead. When I look up at Pete, he's staring at me with with a blank expression on his face. I longer I look back at him the more perplexed he starts to look. "What were you, uh, thinking about", he asks carefully.

"Nothing", I reply. It's amazing how I can become a good liar when I need to. I throw the ring on the coffee table, get up, and leave the room before Pete can say anything else. Time to get my daily fix of painkillers.


	6. Spilling Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one could be triggering.....

(Patrick's POV)

 

After closing and locking the bathroom door, I still feel as if I don't really have any real privacy.  Pete can still come in here at anytime and uncover the truth about everything I'm thinking. I walk over to the medicine cabinet and open it, revealing the pills I have stashed there. I take out the pill bottles and sit them around the sink. I look around the bathroom. All white walls. I chuckle quietly. I have thing about white walls. They for some reason make me a neater person. Yes, I know I am a weirdo. I turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run.

It's not the same. Being in the same room with him, that is. We're not the same people we used to be, you know? We're falling apart with every move we make. Or at least I am. I really have no fucking clue what's been going through his head. We never talk about things that actually matter anymore. It's always meaningless rambling. I mean, we did that stuff in the past. But now... Now I need him to talk about real things with me. Like for example, how I feel so disgusted I feel in my own skin, or how I've barricaded myself in my bathroom and how I'm thinking about offing myself. Fucking Pete Wentz. He just doesn't let me in anymore. Not like he used to. I really just want to punch him, but yet I can't because apparently I'm this person that wouldn't hurt a fly. I sigh. This is all becoming too much. Shaking my head, I grab one of the bottles and open it. I take a quick glance at the pills. These little white pills will always love me better than anything I've ever tried to love. I shake some into my hand, then not even bothering to count them, I swallow the painkillers.

Turning my attention back to the hot water that has running for over ten minutes now. It's starting to steam up the bathroom so I turn off the faucet. I look at the mirror, and see that it has fogged up. I'm glad to know that I can't see myself. I hate myself right now. I open the medicine cabinet for a second time. I stare at the remaining contents. A small plastic container, numerous alcohol pads, and a few gauze bandages. Carefully, I take out the plastic container and the rest of the contents and sit on the white, tiled, bathroom floor leaning against the wall with the items on my lap. I take a deep breath before taking off my shirt; it's been a while since I've done this. I throw the shirt across the bathroom, and watch in awe as it lands in the shower. _'Good thing it's not wet in there,'_ I think to myself. With hands shaking, I grab the plastic container. ' _Don't do this, Patrick. Don't fucking do this. You can't do this again.'_

I open the plastic box and carefully take out the blade I've hidden there. "It's still so shiny," I mumble. I twist the blade through my fingers for a while before sitting it on my lap along with the plastic container. I look at the bathroom door.  _'Is he really that dumb to sit out there in the damned living room and not even notice how long I've been in here?,'_ I wonder.  _'Or maybe he doesn't even care. That must be the case since he hasn't come check on me.'_

I pick up the blade again, this time with the intent to spill blood. With my other hand, I pick up one of the alcohol pad packets and rip it open with my teeth, spitting out the top of the packet when I do. I take out the alcohol pad and begin to sterilize the blade.  _'I'm ready,'_  I think. I choose a new spot on my bare chest that is worthy of some new scars and place the blade over my with slight hesitation before starting; trying to talk myself out doing this. My breathing starts to get erratic as I move the blade, ignoring the blood that welled up to the surface and dripped over my skin and onto the tiled floor. I pressed it to my chest again and dragged it harder and longer than before. It was deeper than the first. I could almost breathe normally again! Just one more time. I did it again, and again, and again, and again. When I pulled the blade away for the last time, I nearly fainted at the euphoric feeling. I looked at my chest; it was a bloody mess. It was beautiful. So beautiful that I hadn't even realized that Pete had picked the lock and was staring at me with tears in his eyes.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL PATRICK!?!"

 


	7. Ocean Floor

(Pete's POV)

I look at the ceiling before looking at Patrick again. "So," I start. "You've relapsed..." I trail off; not really sure how to continue. Suddenly, he starts to cry. Loud gasping sobs that echo in this bathroom. I don't want to see him this way. I move swiftly to him and drop to my knees. "Patrick," I say quietly, but firmly. "Calm down, okay? I need you to calm down."

I take the blade from Patrick's hand and throw it in the toilet. Not smart, I know, but I needed to get it away from him. I place my hands on his shoulders, but when his crying doesn't slow or subside, I pull him close into a tight embrace. I've seen Patrick at his worst, but this... This is way passed any breakdown he's ever had. The fact that this isn't the norm for him to break like this, I don't understand, and it rocks me to my core.  
I look around the floor as I continue to hold (the now broken) Patrick. The alcohol pads catch my attention. Nearby are the bandages and the gauze. 'It was... premeditated', I think and it's only when Patrick nods, I realize that I said it out loud. I let go of the hug and move back a few inches, and I take my mistake as a chance to gently question him.

"Uh, sorry," I start. "Didn't know you could hear me. But it is nice that you're being open with me", I say as I offer a small smile. He smiles back, but I can't help but think he felt obligated to, and it's in this moment, I notice the Patrick's stopped crying. I rub the nape of my neck as I ask, "Why were you crying?" I feel the blood seeping through my shirt. Oh, wait, that could be tears. I don't know. I sigh. "Patrick, you really don't have to cr-" I'm cut off by Patrick starting to cry again. 'Shit, I'm bad at this. I just wish he would talk to me, because he shouldn't have to do...This,' I think. Staring at the ceiling, I find myself just letting him cry. Maybe this is what he's been crying out for since that night.... I close my eyes; the rain, the blood, it's all so damned vivid, and I shiver as the memory continues to run though my mind. I shake it out of my head, then glance back down at Patrick, whose now sobbing quietly. I touch his shoulder, letting my hand linger there for a moment, or two. I open my mouth. Maybe I should apologize, but for what? 'Everything', my mind shouts at me. I shut my mouth.

Looking back down at Patrick, I wonder what's going on in his head at the moment. I sigh. Time to use my get out of jail free card. "Patrick, I can't find the words, to ask, to better understand...", I trail off with hopes that he'll get my point. I wait for a moment, or two, or three, or four. "Patrick look at me," I finally say. I didn't mean for it to come out as snappy as it did, and him flinching is definitely not the dance move I was going for, on this depressed dance floor. "Patrick, I'm sorry. Just look at me, alright?"

"What", he asks quietly. He sounds like a child that has just been scolded by both of his parents, then the world. He still isn't making eye contact with me. I tense up, the way I tend to do when I'm frustrated, and for a moment I forgot that Patrick knows this about me (what doesn't he know about me?), and it's only when he's sobbing out apologies for making me angry, I cease the contracting of my muscles. And then, he's moving away from me, my touch. Is he really afraid? 'Of course he is, and if he isn't, he should be. You caused Joe's death, you prick. You ruined his life'. I frown. It's all true. I did this. Watching him act this way, I did this. "Patrick..." He won't look at me.

We're staring at each other now, on opposite sides of the bathroom; to me if feels like he and I are on opposite sides of the world. Fighting the same war, about to kill each other. I glance at his chest. It's a pale white, with a few small moles, and freckles. The blood has stopped flowing from his scars. When I squint, I can see older scars that have almost completely faded. "How long have you been doing this", I ask. I can see the redness around the new ones; they're swollen too And I just want to run to him, and just hold him. I want to scream that it'll be okay. That he'll be okay. I would be lying to him, though. Completely, and totally lying to him.

"Since that night", Patrick mumbles, and he catches me off guard. I didn't expect an answer.

He's staring at the floor. I want to know what is going through his head. But I'm so scared to ask. I don't want to know how much more pain I've caused, especially now that I know he's been doing this since the very night Joe died. And now that I think about it, that makes a lot of sense because he hasn't touched me since that night... "That's why you pushed me away", I blurt out. "Why didn't you tell me, 'Trick?".

"Because, we...", Patrick squeezes his eyes closed, holds his breath, and bites back tears as he trails off. "You don't listen to me. I mean, really listen. Everything we talk about... It's about things that don't matter, Pete. We both hurt people, and we keep living our lives as if nothing happened." he stops to wipe his tears with back of his hand. He stands up and goes to the medicine cabinet, opens it, grabs a bottle of aspirin then sits back down across from me. "You fucked up. Hell, we both did".

I watch him shake out three of the pills into hand, then swallow them dry. Patrick then takes the bottle with him back to his side of the bathroom, sits back down and sits the bottle next to himself. And I glance around the bathroom as we go silent. My eyes land on the spot under the sink, and that's when I see it (and I don't mean the alarming amount of dirt, which by the way is a pretty obvious sign that someone should really clean under there better). It's a another bottle of pills. The same kind Patrick has with him right now. Tylenol. They look like they fell from the sink. And as I stare longer, I take note that this sets off red flags in my head, but I don't know why. I turn to Patrick, knowing that there must be a logical explanation for it. I watch him for a moment. He's staring at the floor, completely in his own world, like when his writing song lyrics or reading something grossly educational. He's focused and I don't want to interrupt that. When he looks up at me, I can't read his expression. "Sorry", he says.

"For what?"

"For getting blood on your Metallica shirt".


End file.
